


i finally see the pattern

by forgetmyname



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, M/M, No Mary Morstan, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetmyname/pseuds/forgetmyname
Summary: "Plants weren’t normally on Sherlock’s line of interest unless they were poisonous. However, the huge, clearly expensive, bouquet on their table seemed made up from regular roses. And yet, there was his flatmate, sitting across from them, with razor sharp focus and a frown, as picked one of the white roses and cut it to pieces. He had been doing that for a while, as there was already a slaughter of the flowers on the floor.“Okay, unless the goal is to understand how a cheated girlfriend feels when she’s destroying her ex’s presents, I’m really clueless here,” John said before he could stop himself."Or that one that John gets roses.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 241





	i finally see the pattern

**Author's Note:**

> after talking about johnlock's fics for the past few weeks, a friend was like "you should write something for them"
> 
> i said "i cant" but then i did this so idk what that says about me

The first time John asked if there was a point to Sherlock’s experiments, he received a glare and a silent treatment that lasted for a week. The first time he suggested that despite having a point, the point itself had no practical use, Sherlock didn’t rebuke with childish silence.

No, he started a _very_ _urgent_ experiment that mostly revolved around burning John’s jumpers.

John figured out the practical point of that one in half a second.

So, to say that John doesn’t question Sherlock’s scientific method anymore is an understatement. Still, after an entire day of being puked on at the clinic, John’s control wasn’t on his usual high – near _saint_ , if you asked him – levels. And perhaps he would have kept his mouth shut, had he come up and found a decapitated head or a collection of frogs. Those were usual and barely registered.

Plants weren’t normally on Sherlock’s line of interest unless they were poisonous. However, the huge, clearly expensive, bouquet on their table seemed made up from regular roses. And yet, there was his flatmate, sitting across from them, with razor sharp focus and a frown, as picked one of the white roses and cut it to pieces. He had been doing that for a while, as there was already a slaughter of the flowers on the floor.

“Okay, unless the goal is to understand how a cheated girlfriend feels when she’s destroying her ex’s presents, I’m really clueless here,” John said before he could stop himself.

Sherlock looked up, which made a thousand alarms blast loudly in John’s mind. _Not good._ He was still frowning, and seemingly more intently than before. _Really not good._

“A cheated girlfriend feels anger, that’s not really a mystery, John,” he punctuated by cutting more forcefully than necessary. “And all men know roses are meretricious.”

John smirked. “I thought you saved all your four syllable words to crime scenes to torment Sally and Anderson.”

Sherlock huffed but didn’t smile nor comment. That was the biggest sign yet that there was something off. Sherlock not taking the openings to complain about the officers of The Met, not even a quip about their incompetence meant he was either too angry or, more disturbing of all, too focused to say anything.

Focused on what was the mystery – and John normally depended on Sherlock to solve those. He debated for a second whether or not he should press, and he decided it could wait. Tea was a priority.

While he hung his coat and walked towards their oven, he started to wonder where the roses had come from. The only time their flat had received such expensive flowers was when Sherlock had _died_ … John waved those thoughts away before they could consume him. He bought his girlfriends bouquets, of course, but he would seem crazy giving such good flowers on first or second dates considering his salary (and recently _two_ dates were the most he was managing with the same woman). Sherlock got nice flowers once or twice from grateful clients, but most clients left telling him to fuck off, and the few grateful ones normally assumed Sherlock had little interest in flowers or were broke.

Their last client, John realized, didn’t fit either of those categories. Like most CEOs, Steven Blackwood was filthy rich. When Sherlock found out in a couple of hours which of his employees had been embezzling, he seemed overly grateful. He had handled all Sherlock’s intrusive comments overly well. The ones about his narcissistic tendencies made him smile with honest amusement. The one about how sport cars were clearly a form of trying to buy happiness – that made Blackwood’s confident smile wave for a second, but he had rolled his eyes and said that if Sherlock was trying to dig at him, he should have said the cars were a way of overcompensating for something.

John had stepped on Sherlock’s toes before the lunatic could say whatever he had deduced about the man’s genitals.

So, Blackwood. He had paid them both _more_ than good enough (John had called Lestrade and said their Friday drinks were on himself for the next few months _good_ ), but perhaps Blackwood thought the flowers would maintain a favorable relationship with them and having a detective like Sherlock around was a good tool.

That, however, didn’t explain the path of destruction and Sherlock’s _perky_ mood.

The water was boiling by then, so John fixed everything in two mugs, and walked back to the living room. Sherlock had finished all the white roses and was now eyeing the pink ones like cutting them up wouldn’t suffice. John prayed he didn’t set them on fire, because after the last time Sherlock used the blowtorch, they had used their all fire extinguishers.

John handed him one of the coups, speaking slowly as if it would prevent Sherlock from being, well, _Sherlock_. “Blackwood was very happy with you, huh?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows climbed up for a second, before scowling again. He was silent for a second before replying, “These aren’t for _me_.”

He didn’t rebuke Blackwood’s name, so John had gotten that much right. Okay. Sherlock wouldn’t offer more than that, so John had to continue blindly searching for information.

“Who else would they be for? You solved the case without my help,” John replied laughing, when he caught up with Sherlock’s sentence.

When his laughter died down on the otherwise dead silent flat, Sherlock simply extended him a small white envelope. _To: John_ was written across it in a beautiful handwriting. Three things became painfully clear the moment his hand closed around it:

One – Sherlock hated sharing John’s attention, and that had caused the bad mood. _Jealously_. Unbelievable.

Two – The idea of Sherlock being jealous of another man made something inside of him flare up.

Three – A rich man was clearly asking him out and John was considering how much of a nice dinner he could get out of it.

Before he could have more epiphanies, Sherlock started his rapid-fire deductions. “I didn’t open it, because you hate it when I meddle with your mail---”

“But ruining my flowers was fine!?”

“----but Blackwood clearly is seeking a romantic relationship; the five-hundred quid arrangement, the Italian envelop with someone else’s better penmanship---”

“Five---wait, even writing my name is expensive?”

“---it indicates he’s willing to go the extra length to impress you,” Sherlock continued, ignoring him again. “Possibly because he believes you’re closeted and that getting you to date a man requires something worthy of your time which adds to the thrill of seducing you in the first place---”

“I’m not closeted! Do people think I’m closeted?”

“---but possibly because he enjoys showing off too much. Probably _both_. He wasn’t counting on your unshakable heterosexuality, and he clearly doesn’t understand your strong moral code, the one that makes you unlikely to feel persuaded by the large display of money----”

“I’m not heterosexual and I do feel persuaded by the money.”

“---So, I _ruined_ your flowers because they were representative of a narcissist attempt of morally corrupting you and I thought you would like to see them gone.” Sherlock waved his hand around as if it was all quite straightforward, but he froze mid-movement.

John smirked.

“Say that again,” Sherlock said slowly, in the tone he usually reserved for when John just helped him make a difficult connection on a case with a random phrase.

“Oh, but you do _so_ hate when people make you repeat yourself, I should hate it too,” John’s smirk only got bigger. But he continued speaking before Sherlock could snap at him. “I do feel persuaded by the money. He’s got a _boat_. He could probably take me to the fanciest place in London and I’m poor enough to consider agreeing just for that,” he teased.

Sherlock set his jaw. He was analyzing John as if to make sure he wasn’t joking and when he clearly arrived at the correct assumption that John was dead serious about considering, he made his best dismissive face. “John, I’ve seen you yell at the middle of the Scotland Yard you’re not gay.”

John nodded, smiling, while opening the small envelope, eyes casted down on it.

“Yeah, Sherlock, I was there. I screamed it on Anderson’s face. After his fifth gay joke of the day.”

The message was short, written in the same calligraphy as the envelope, in a nice texturized crème paper. _John, I do hope you don’t find presumptuous of me to ask you for dinner. As an admirer of your blog, I know we have compatible senses of humor. I also remember an entry that joked about the correlation between roses and sex – I wondered if these roses could help with the answer. I have been informed by your colleague that I can’t buy happiness. I can, however, buy dinner at good restaurants and I believe having you around would guarantee results. Text me when you’re available. Steven._ Followed by his phone number.

John had to tip his hat; the self-awareness, combined with the self-confidence, the classic approach of roses mingled with the nudge in the sex direction of the message, the humor. If Blackwood had that kind of game, he probably was probably getting laid every day.

Hell, he was a handsome millionaire.

 _Of course_ he was probably getting laid every day.

“How can you say you’re not straight while screaming you’re not gay to every bystander?,” Sherlock inquired. He had remained quiet for the past minute.

John raised an eyebrow. “I don’t yell it at every bystander. Besides, I’m neither. The word is bisexual,” he rolled his eyes. “But to be fair to you, I hadn’t come to terms with that when I first moved in. And now I do still fucking hate Anderson’s jokes.”

Sherlock shook his head a couple of times, his eyes darting around in a way that would suggest madness in anyone else. John knew that meant he needed time to process – which could take one minute or five hours – so he just grabbed his mug, the rose Sherlock was barely holding on to, and carried those towards his bedroom.

+

There was _always_ something.

Knowing someone is attracted to a gender and that person admitting that to themselves were separate deals. Of course Sherlock had seem John’s gaze being lost in an attractive men more than once, but it was much less frequent than his focus on beautiful women.

Sherlock had assumed that John would never abandon the notion that he was simply straight, given his loud reactions whenever someone suggested otherwise. Then, Sherlock had been too caught up in the audacity of Blackwood to realize that John was telling him something obvious, but that he had spent months hoping for.

There were too many questions – when did John realized it? When did he accepted it? How long was he assuming people just knew about it? Had he dated men---no, Sherlock would have been able to see that much.

Was he going to say yes to Blackwood?

The temptation wasn’t a joke. Blackwood had been one of the men that clearly had captivated John’s attention. And while John had a cheap taste on nearly everything, food was one of the few things he clearly approved splurging on.

Sherlock already hated most boring, innocuous girlfriends, that were clearly not going to captive John’s attention for long enough (nor tolerate Sherlock’s bluntness). Blackwood… Blackwood wasn’t boring, he seemed to approve of their friendship, and reacted spectacularly well at Sherlock’s digs.

He had seen the way Blackwood had eyed John, the gleam of challenge, but also the spark of warmth that John seemed to cultivate on people. He had mention reading John’s blog. From his comments, he had actually read it.

God, Sherlock _hated_ him.

He got up from the sofa and started walking up the stairs. He could convince John this was an awful idea. There were clear reasons for it, all John had to do was _see_.

Sherlock knocked – only because that would make John more agreeable – and waited for the reply. John was sitting on his bed, his phone next to him, but his attention was all on Sherlock.

“You two wouldn’t work,” Sherlock said, stepping inside with his usual determination.

John raised his eyebrows, with a playful air. Sherlock tried not to scowl. “Why do you think so?”

“A number of reasons come to mind. His fortune would eventually become something you resented; especially considering the gossip it would arise. Which lends us in reason number two: the media would have a field day. You’re a public figure, described as a permanent bachelor, and he also tends to drag attention. Your privacy would be violated. You’ll mind, but he will care even more given his need of being liked. You’d despair being with someone that thought too highly of themselves. And, lastly, our work would put a target on his back given the public circumstance and you’d feel guilty, as you have in the past when any of your girlfriends were threatened. That will most certainly lead to a messy, awful break up.”

John had his head tilted to the side throughout as if he was considering all his points very carefully.

“I really wouldn’t mind the money, in fact I usually complain we _don’t_ have money. I could give up my privacy if it meant being with someone I cared about. I wouldn’t mind his vanity, I am your friend after all,” John smiled in clear good nature, not wanting it to be a blow to Sherlock’s ego. It still felt like a deserved slap on his face – Sherlock really had no space to criticize anyone’s vanity. “And he’s a CEO, he most probably already has a target on his back. In fact, being a CEO probably means he’s got more ways to protect himself than my usual girlfriends.”

Sherlock sighed. So, John _was_ going to date Blackwood.

Why did it sting more than all his previous dating rendezvous? 

He pointedly ignored the part of his brain screaming at him that the reason was because now he knew John could – and was willing – to dating _other_ men. And that would mean watching him do that.

He _was_ British and he _was_ going to refuse looking to much into his own feelings.

Even if he knew exactly what is was, how long it was growing like a parasite inside his heart, and how only now he knew he had a chance of---

“But, see, you were right,” John continued and Sherlock looked sharply at him.

“I was right?,” and he realizes with a pang of longing that he just had accidentally mirrored a conversation from when they barely knew each other. He said the next words, the same words John had said to him all those years ago. “About what?”

“He and I wouldn’t work,” John shrugged, acting overly disinterested.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but while he could read John very well at this point, he wasn’t a mind reader, as much as he liked to make people think so.

As much as he desperately wanted to be in that moment.

“Why not?”

“I already got my eyes on someone else,” he said, casually. “A jealous _idiot_.”

Before Sherlock could ask who had the sudden focus of his attention, he realized that John was smiling fondly at him. Some of the answers he wanted right there – the last piece of the puzzle smoothly going into place.

“ _Oh_.”

Sherlock smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> comments? suggestions?
> 
> i'm kingmieczyslaw on tumblr, come say hi


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